


Holding Pattern

by junkienicky



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Excuse my poor summary, F/F, Heavy Angst, I didn't know what to rate this so, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Infidelity Paranoia, Please Don't Kill Me, Read til end before you do lol, Some Fluff, does dr evil laugh, some sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2019-11-04 07:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17894378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkienicky/pseuds/junkienicky
Summary: Bridget tried to ignore the small nagging voice in her conscience that so much insisted that there was an issue. She’d competed against it with her twenty years’ worth of psych logic and managed to push it into a cold, empty corner and transfer her focus to more important matters.And she’d beat that voice, for a short period, it seemed. Until it began to whisper again.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Big shout out to Lutefiskfisk, you're the best!

Bridget tried to ignore the small nagging voice in her conscience that so much _insisted_ that there was an issue. She’d competed against it with her twenty years’ worth of psych logic and managed to push it into a cold, empty corner and transfer her focus to more important matters. Work. Getting the brake light on her car fixed. Making sure Vera was okay after the stalking shitstorm.

And she’d beat that voice, for a short period, it seemed. Until it began to whisper again. She loved Franky. And Franky loved her. They lived together and the sheer amount of shit they’d had stacked against them and endured shared trauma was a testament to their love.

So, when Franky began to act strangely in ways Bridget or her inner psychologist could not fathom, naturally, it started making her a tad nervous. It had begun a week ago. A minor incident that could have easily been overlooked by anyone in that moment of time. Except that a series of suspicious incidents had continued to occur ever since.

 

Bridget glared at her car clock, white-knuckled fists gripping the steering wheel as she tried her damned hardest to find any reasoning voice in her being that could convince her otherwise. She found there was nothing.

Her nostrils flared at the traffic lights as she began to think of how she would interrogate Franky when she arrived home.

**One Week Prior**

It was a usual Saturday, Bridget’s day off and Franky’s day at the office. Typical. The blonde never usually made many, if any, plans for the day, although she had arranged to meet up with a couple of her lifelong friends.

 

Until they cancelled on her.

 

It was midday and she was sat on her couch in her best clothes, hair done up, doing nothing but watching reruns of Neighbours and Home and Away, or otherwise flicking through the channels to find at least _something_ interesting. _Daytime television is such a fucking drag_ , she absently thought and rubbed light circles to her calf. It had been nine weeks since the accident and her leg were declared recovered now, however, that term didn’t exclude a little stiffness and clumsiness from time to time.

She was startled when Franky’s house keys frantically wedged and fiddled in the lock, and she burst through the front door looking as if she’d come straight from jogging a marathon – evident by her face looking both hotly flushed and confused.

“Oh,” the brunette stuttered, a clump of papers and a cup of coffee in her arms. Her eyes landed to Bridget’s position on the couch and she clutched the papers a little tighter to her chest.

“This is a surprise. Were you going to have lunch at home?” Bridget questioned. Her eyes followed Franky who was making her way to the kitchen island.

“Nuh, I just, uh….” Franky swallowed to take a steady breath in the best attempt to come across as genuine and unfazed as possible. “I thought you were going out?” she said in a high pitch and winced inly.

The blonde quirked a brow in confusion before answering, “No, they, um, cancelled.” Franky made a silent ‘Oh’ accompanied by a nod. She formed a clicking sound with her tongue.

“That’s shitty. You look hot, though.”

Bridget could only smile awkwardly at the dismay. “Did you forget something, baby?”

Franky bit her lip. She was usually good at lying, but not when she was completely caught right off-guard. “Um, nuh, I just need my car. I need to make a quick trip to the registry, I have twenty minutes, then I have to see a client.” She chewed at the inside of her cheek, hoping her words didn’t come across as jumbled and unconvincing as they sounded in her own ears.

Bridget hadn’t left the house at all yet and was unaware Franky’s car was still parked in the drive. “You left it here?”

“Oh, yeah, I copped a ride from Melanie,” Franky laughed unsteadily.

Melanie Lockwood was her close colleague and friend. Thirty-something, blonde, pretty. Bridget had met her once or a few times, vaguely. Not enough to make personal judgement or become friends with. They had exchanged just enough words to be acquainted, and that’s about it.

“Ah, right,” came Bridget’s reply.

“Er, yeah, better get my keys then, eh? They still in my bedside draw?” Before her lover’s response, Franky hastily made a light jog towards their bedroom.

The blonde closed her eyes and shook her head, still mildly bewildered and bemused by Franky’s unexpectedly short visit. “Um, unless I moved them for some reason, I’d think so?” she called.

“Got ‘em.” After a few moments, the brunette practically skipped her way back to the living area and looked like she’d had her cheeks pinched.

“You sure you’re all good, baby? You looked like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Bridget breathed, amused, although she had to wonder if she looked a mess for a moment. If her hair was ragged, or if mascara had somehow managed to smudge halfway down her face, because seeing Franky so oddly startled and strangely panicky in such an ordinary situation was very different. Bizarre even.

Franky grinned on the spot and blurted out “Yeah, yeah, it’s all good”, almost like a sigh of relief. She stepped closer to the couch to lean forward and press a chaste kiss to Bridget’s head.

“Gotta run, babe, I’ll see you tonight,” she said and trotted away down the hall as if her heels were on fire.

“Okay, I love –”

Bridget was met with the sound of the door slamming.

"you."

* * *

The psychologist had made a lasagne for dinner, expecting that come 7:00 PM, they’d both be dining at opposite ends of the table and sharing conversations about how their day had gone.

It had gone 8:30 PM by now, and all Bridget could do was share glances between the clock, her phone, and the food she’d carefully prepared out on the plates.

 

She tried not to overthink it. There would be a perfectly reasonable explanation, come the time Franky got in. She counted on it.

 

Her eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle of Shiraz on the kitchen counter. It was pitiful but undeniable to herself that she wallowed in the fine taste of a good drink – or a good few, as a matter of fact. But what she couldn’t put her finger on was why. Why was she drinking over a probably very small misconception on her lover’s end? Maybe stress had been gnawing in the depths of her mind, without her even realising. 

Bridget shook her head hard and very nearly laughed aloud. She was beginning to sound entitled as fuck, and while she’d usually advise her patients to let themselves express how they feel, communicate with their emotions and connect with them, rather than blot them out, ironically, it did her a lot worse than good and it usually resulted in paranoia. The fucking last thing Bridget needed.

Aside from hope, and much like Franky, the blonde was a firm believer in freedom. If she had Franky tied down in the past few weeks, she had to wonder if this was a fault on her own end. Bridget didn’t wish Franky to feel cooped in and restricted around her. She thought back to that odd incident at lunch earlier and suspected something was _off_.

After procrastinating evidently too much for own good, the psychologist finally made the decision to pick up her phone and tap on that little messenger icon.

 

 **To:** Franky

Hey, I made us dinner. Have you been held up at work? Everything ok? X

 **Sent at:** 8:42PM

 

It was another ten minutes of overthinking until the device began vibrating on the table. Bridget tensed up as she swiped to answer the call, practically readying herself to spring up and jog to the car if she must.

“Franky?” she breathed – her brows furrowing at the rowdy and disorderly noises that came from the other end.

“Gidge?” Franky’s voice lagged. Must be a poor signal. “You alright?” The blonde’s ear was met with disorientated laughs from at least five people. Her breathing rasped in perplexion as she considered the query. “Am _I_ okay? Are you? Where are you, did you get my text?”

“I thought I’d texted you ages ago. I’m down the pub,” Franky’s voice slurred. Bridget sighed and became increasingly peeved. The brunette’s nonchalant tone wasn’t making anything any less disheartening for her.

“Well, you didn’t…I made us dinner. I was worried something had happened,” she said disdainfully. The blonde relaxed her demeanour slightly. “What’s the occasion?” she pressed, more considerate than she wanted to be this time.

“No, no, no, I said _I’ll_ get us the next one –” Franky’s voice interjected from more of a distance. She was obviously calling her round and paying no mind to Bridget’s words. “You what? Oh, Ken finally cracked the Sawyer case. Victim got everything they wanted, all by the good work and support of one our fine lawyers.” The brunette was giddily chuckling and clearly too sloshed to detect the hurt coming from Bridget.

The blonde sucked in a sharp breath. “I see.”

She bit her lip. “Franky, about earlier, are you –”

“Sorry, Gidge. I thought I’d texted ya,” Franky interrupted in a drunken garble. The sound of Melanie’s laughter rang through the phone, making Bridget wince. For as charming and well put together Franky’s colleague seemed – she had a grating laugh. “What happened earlier…You seemed worried about something. Franky, are you okay?” the psychologist persevered.

“Huh? Yeah, course I am,” Franky said absently. Bridget wasn’t sure to feel confident with that response.

“You sure?”

“Promise,” the ex-con insisted, and Bridget could practically see a warm smile radiate from the opposite end of the line. At that, she eased more. “Okay,” she whispered, sighing away her frustrations. “I’m assuming you’ve eaten? What time are you going to be home? Late?” she guessed.

“I dunno. Probably gone twelve.”

“Oh,” Bridget murmured, trying to sound as little crestfallen as possible. “What about your car? How are you getting home?” Her eyes cast to the glass in front of her with one small drop of red in the base. Just _feeling_ fine could diminish the guilt of driving over the limit, though it certainly wouldn’t thrive as an excuse when she’s pulled up by a cop car and instructed to take a breathalyser.

“Melanie’s giving me a ride,” Franky clarified. Before Bridget could say anything, the brunette continued over a roar of cheers, “Listen, I better go, Gidget. Jack betted a shitload on his team, and I think they’re down two-nil,” she laughed. “See you tonight.”

“Well, I’ll be in bed,” Bridget mumbled, feeling her chest tighten. As water pricked at the back of her eyes, she felt rather pathetic. Was she overreacting? She knew Franky never had any intent to be careless, but this felt incredibly flummoxing and low. “But have fun.”

She hung up, collected her glass to place it in the sink and pottered away with slumped shoulders, flicking the light switch off as she went.

* * *

The next morning had Franky and Bridget sound asleep under the sheets – both dead to the world and the ray of sunshine that poked through the gap in the curtains. It was Franky who woke first, her eyes first meeting the warm light that filled the room, making her squint at the dull ache in her head it caused. She turned to her side to observe the psychologist, who had her head basically buried in the stack of pillows, just as she had when Franky had arrived home in the late or night – or morning, technically.

The corners of her lips twitched at the sight and she inhaled sharply, sitting up in the bed. The motion made her somewhat queasy and she glowered at the heaviness her eyes felt. She was hungover, alright.

Bridget moaned as she peeled open her eyes and was met with Franky lowering herself back into the sheets opposite her – their noses close, but not touching. “Morning,” the blonde greeted, her voice thick with sleep. Franky hummed something incoherent back. “Good night?” The brunette expressed an “Ugh” and flopped onto her back. “Dunno if it was worth _this_ ,” Franky grumbled, referring to the after-effects the alcohol had washed her over with. “Can’t remember the last time I felt like this after a night out.” The ex-con peered over to the LED clock on her right that read 10:42 AM. “Thank God it’s a Sunday,” she grunted.

Franky twisted back to her side to lock eyes with Bridget, a look of sorrow drawn on her face. “Sorry. Suppose I was a bit of dick on the phone?” There was an uneven pause as Bridget swallowed and moved her gaze to the ceiling.

“You were...Occupied” she said in a blunt tone.

“Next time I’ll make sure to let you know. Promise,” Franky vowed. The blonde held her breath, although she soon smiled against her will.

“Okay,” Bridget accepted, and let her eyes trace the brunette’s form to change the subject. It was no good holding a grudge over something petty. “You know –” she began, letting her hands manoeuvre around the skin of Franky’s arms. “It’s been a while since we…” she trailed off, but the brunette instantaneously gathered what she was getting at. She smirked but drew back.

“Just let me do my teeth,” she said, and groggily slid out of the sheets. “Good idea,” Bridget hummed and moved from the bed to join Franky in the bathroom.

 

The ex-con already had her purple toothbrush poking out from her lips and she was inspecting her face in the mirror when the blonde entered the small room. She collected her brush and leaned forward to reach the toothpaste that Franky always fucking left the lid off and applied the substance to its bristles. The two of them remained silent while brushing unsynchronised and Franky used her spare hand to rub at her droopy eyes, then to fish around in the overhead cabinet for the half-empty pack of ibuprofen.

“What’s the best cure for a hangover?” Franky mused playfully. She met Bridget’s eyes in the mirror and dug her thumb nail into the pack, creating a crinkly plastic sound. The blonde tilted her head to the side and paused her movement. “Rest or sleep, keeping hydrated, painkillers, less exposure to light…” her words garbled around the brush.

“Nuh.” Franky spat in the sink, rinsed the brush to plop it back into the glass and wiped at her top lip. She plopped the small drugs into her mouth, slurped at the water purging from the tap and scrunched her face after swallowing them down.

She spun around to face Bridget – her brows raised high and a mischievous grin playing on her lips. “Sex,” she concluded.

The psychologist’s shoulders shook as she snickered in ‘fair enough’ and shifted out the way to allow Franky to brush past her. As she exited the bathroom, the brunette playfully slapped her bum and chuckled to herself while strolling back to the bedroom.

 

It wasn’t long until Bridget was back at the doorframe and a mild shade of red was tinting her cheeks when she realised Franky had comfortably undressed with her nightwear in a small heap beside the bed. Franky beckoned her small figure with a wide beam, and she pushed the sheets down as an invite which Bridget immediately accepted, of course.

She slid into the warm fabric to join her and it was Franky who was first to instigate the heated kiss – their breaths becoming ragged and tongues getting tangled in a frenzied tango. One of them moaned – or both, and the ex-con tugged firmly at the vest covering Bridget’s upper body as a plea to explore more. It had been a fair few weeks since this kind of activity, and neither shared the desire for teasing games and foreplay. They needed the touch of one another. The close feeling. The release.

Franky broke the kiss to push the blonde onto her back and trailed lustful kisses along her jaw and neck. Bridget sighed at the ecstasy, threading her fingers through Franky’s raven hair as she arched her back. The low growls emitting from the pair emphasised the need and hunger that had quickly unfolded and Bridget completely surrendered herself under Franky’s swift touches. She hadn’t realised how much she needed this until the brunette’s fingers danced to the waistband of her underwear. Sighing, she watched her intently with a desire of lust flashing in her orbs and hummed her name once or twice.

Groaning against her skin, Franky pressed herself onto her stomach between Bridget’s legs. She slowly tugged down the cotton, resulting in a low growl from the smaller woman.

Franky was about to dip in when the vibration of her phone buzzed into the moment, creating a dead beat when she froze her ministrations. With swollen lips, she glanced towards the cabinet, attempting to read the illuminated name while it continued to judder.

“Ignore it,” Bridget rasped as a plea. Franky looked back at her; her eyes were screwed shut and her hands trailed down to Franky’s arms in a desperate attempt to form some kind of friction. “Please,” she persisted and Franky could have melted then and there. She looked so vulnerable and yearning. It spiked her own arousal even more.

The taller woman responded by straddling Bridget and crashed her lips back down onto hers. In the elation of urgency and pants, the psychologist roamed her fingers down the smooth of Franky’s back, finding her rear end and cupping her closer to grind lavishly against her. The brunette broke out into a shiver as the two withered and groaned together.

The buzzing behind her lids was replaced with a desire that spun around her head. She wondered how she’d coped without this feeling for so long.

Her phone violently vibrated a series of texts into the picture once again, and Franky sprung up, departing from her position to approach and eye up the device. Bridget huffed in annoyance and sank further onto her back and pillow.

“It’s Mel,” Franky stated.

 _Oh, there’s a surprise,_ Bridget silently thought. This time, she didn’t feel guilty about the frustration that surfaced. She’d been cast aside for the sake of a fucking text, and she would be more reasonable about it if it was at another time. Maybe it was her arousal impaling her fair-mindedness, but it wasn’t like she’d ever picked the phone up for Vera when they were indulging in this activity, and here Franky was, stood completely naked, grinning wildly and tapping away at the screen like she wasn’t even in the room anymore.

 

 **From:** Mels

If you wanna do that thing today, it’s gonna have to be now. I’m busy all afternoon maatee x

 **Delivered At:** 10:58 AM

 

 **To:** Mels

Ugh fuck. Pick your timing. She’s gonna hate me the rest of the week :/ fine. I’m dangerously going out of my way for this big thing u know. We should’ve planned it better.

 **Sent At:** 10:58 AM

 

“She’s in trouble,” she commented, keeping her eyes on the phone. “Well, it can’t be that serious,” Bridget muttered, regarding Franky’s smile. “What’s gone on?” she quizzed. Franky pursed her lip for a second. “Can’t get her car to start,” she hastened and felt like slapping herself for such a lousy excuse when she noticed the ocean blue in Bridget’s eyes cloud over in frustration.

“And she needs _you?_ Right now? No one else can help her?”

Franky ignored the comment and hesitantly paced to the wardrobe to select some clothing. _Sex can wait. There are bigger things at stake_ – is what she ultimately convinced herself to roll with. "What are y-” Bridget started as a demand, though it ended in a scoff when the taller woman slid her legs into a clean pair of Bonds underwear.

“Sorry,” she said quietly and wriggled into her black jeans. Bridget perched herself up on her elbow and watched as Franky slipped into her bra and t-shirt. She opened her mouth to say something but found nothing came out. “Sorry, I just…I just owe her a favour,” Franky said apologetically.“Seriously?” the blonde retorted, teeming with spleen and feeling as if she’d been smacked. She plummeted onto her back and allowed an angry frown to form on her features.

After squeezing her feet into her black boots, Franky glanced over her shoulder – a strong tint of remorse emitting from the green of her eyes. Bridget didn’t want to look at her. The brunette crept closer to the bed and cupped her girlfriend’s face. “It’ll be a couple of hours, that’s all, Gidge. When I get back, we can finish where we left off, okay?” she declared hopefully, and pressed her lips to Bridget – unsurprised when the woman didn’t meet her halfway to kiss back.

 _A couple of_ _hours?_ the psychologist’s thought snarled. _Cause that’s really how long it takes to restart a car._

“I’m sorry, really, Gidget,” Franky repeated and moved to wrestle her arms into the sleeves of her jacket.

 _Forget it,_ Bridget felt like murmuring and refused to look the brunette in the eyes. No puppy-dog apologetic gaze was going to win her over today. No fucking way. She didn’t even feel angry anymore – just hurt.

Franky pledged and before long, Bridget was left with the sound of her own breath; unsatisfied and unfinished with.

She brought a hand to brush through her hair, feeling herself fall into a turmoil of embittered sadness.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite teeming with incertitude and complete uncertainty, she decided she’d give Franky a chance to be honest and explain. They were both adults. After everything, she should believe that they both had each other’s trust – shouldn’t she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this has become longer than I anticipated and was originally supposed to only play out in two parts. Looks like it will have to be three. Sorry about that! Another cheers to Lutefiskfisk!

Three days had passed since the three confounding incidents, and sure enough, Franky had done her best efforts to make it up to Bridget. Efforts that the blonde eventually compromised with and that allowed her to shove her frustrations into a suitcase to put to rest because she knew Franky was truly, deeply sorry about her blunders and knew that she was doing her best to write on a clean page.

The ex-con had induced Bridget to dinners, cinema trips, sex and spontaneous walks in the last three nights and made no excuses but only promises that things would be better in the future, and so, gradually, the psychologist had come to accept that. She refused to be driven by paranoia and silly thoughts. They were both women married to their jobs and Franky was simply more of a sociable person. The only way around it was to embrace it and accept the independence that came with it – for both of them. Cherish the times they spent together and respect that there’s always going to be little things that get in the way. It’s just life. The bitch with a capital B.

By this point, it was a Wednesday, and Franky had slipped away from work a little before lunch to make Bridget spaghetti at home. Usually, the blonde would pass on such a heavy meal during the day, although work didn’t start for her until later in the evening and she’d skipped breakfast for the usual cosy lie-in. Legal Relief was close by their home and the brunette only had an hour gap, so it was flattering for Bridget to have her come back and spend it with only her.

Franky leaned forward in her stool, Cheshire Cat grin marking dimples into her cheeks as she closely watched the blonde finish her last few mouthfuls. “So.” She licked at the edge of her mouth awaiting Bridget’s thoughts on the dish, having full confidence that the psychologist clearly took great relish in every taste. She raised her brows smugly – though not cockily. She just knew she was fucking good at this type of art form, ever since her late teens. “How was it?”

“Ooh. Just beautiful,” Bridget reviewed with a delighted smile and dabbed at the corners of her lips. Franky instantly felt rewarded.

“I wouldn’t take anything less.” The pair chuckled.

“What time is it?” Bridget asked.

Franky sighed, fiddling with the rings around her thumbs. “Quarter to. Better get back to work in five.”

“I wish you could stay,” Bridget purred as she pressed a long-awaited kiss to Franky’s cheek.

“Yeah,” the brunette said quietly. “Listen, I was thinking that –”

There was a firm knock at the front door which mildly startled the two. “You expecting anyone?”

“Nuh?”

The taller woman slid down from the stool. “I’ll get it,” she said keenly, and her boot heels clonked down the corridor towards the door. On the kitchen island, Franky’s phone began to buzz, _Mels_ the screen said. Bridget suppressed the strong urge to roll her eyes. _What this time? You lost a nail file?_ She picked the device up.

“Baby,” she called. “your phone’s ringing.” But Franky didn’t hear and it wasn't long until the device rang off. The blonde was a millimetre from placing it back to the counter when a text appeared that instantly made her face turn blank and her skin feel cold.

She didn’t mean to read it. It was none of her business. Her eyes just quickly skimmed the message and she would never have done it purposefully.

 

 **From:** Mels

When are u coming to get all your stuff from my house? U won’t have long to sneak it back to yours u know. X

 **Delivered At:** 12:47 PM

 

Bridget placed the phone down like it was a brick in her hand. Her mind raced and her stomach felt like she’d taken a steep fall from which she'd never recover from.

_What the fuck does that mean?_

She blinked numbly and shifted her glance over to Franky, who had opened the door only by a tight narrow gap and Bridget could’ve sworn she heard her curse a little. Her orbs narrowed at the sight - attempting to make out the conversation from a distance. Fear began to bite at her, and she broke into a thundered march in choosing that she preferred direct answers from her lover. Despite teeming with incertitude and complete uncertainty, she decided she’d give Franky a chance to be honest and explain. They were both adults. After everything, she should believe that they both had each other’s trust – shouldn’t she?

Franky turned back from the door wearily to see Bridget, cool-eyed and arms tightly crossed against her chest.

“Who was that?” She wasted no time.

The brunette shifted her weight between both feet and swallowed. Her fingers fiddled in the sleeves of her jumper. “Uh, someone.” She blinked hard. “No one,” she corrected evasively. Her expression shifted into a forced smile.

Impatiently, Bridget tilted her chin upwards and chewed harshly at her bottom lip. She was far from in the mood for cute little antics and fucking little quirks and teases. “Well, was is someone or no one?”

Franky stared at the blonde, blank and confused as to why it seemed like she was being scrutinised on the spot. She shook it off with a plain awkward laugh. “Just the neighbour. Thought she’d tell us the topiary plants look nice.”

Their neighbour who had never once said anything to Bridget other than “Nice to meet you, I’m Mary.”

Bridget glared at her in incredulity; Franky caught this and splayed her palms open. “What, you don’t believe me?” she asked softly in a quiet tremor.

“No.”

The two fell silent. They regarded each other cautiously with insecure looks.

“What do you want me to say?”

Arms still tightly crossed, the smaller woman closed the gap between them and laid into Franky with hard eyes, declaring prominence of how she was feeling. “I want you to stop acting so strange and tell me what’s going on.”

The brunette frowned this time and scoffed at the remark. “You still don’t trust me,” she said carefully. It stung a bit.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, do not turn this back around onto you, Franky,” Bridget demanded, a saddened quiver seeping into her voice. The taller woman’s brows furrowed and her jaw tightened, but Bridget ploughed on. “That is _not_ what this is about, you’re hiding something from me.” Franky’s breath felt rickety as she dropped her eyes to the floor. She despised herself for seeing Bridget like this. Biting the inside of her cheek and almost drawing blood, she stepped close to her partner. “I’m not.”

Bridget expelled a puff of air from her lips. Feeling her hackles lift, she wasn’t sure whether to be incensed or fundamentally disappointed. Her fears hollered back in her head and she could do nothing except for holding her steely gaze. Her only proof of her suspicion of Franky’s disloyalty was her sadness.

The brunette felt tiny, dishevelled and fucking awful. “Why the fuck would I lie to you, Gidge?” she stammered and moved to tuck some short strands behind Bridget’s ears. “What’s got you thinking like this? It’s us, okay?”

 _“Us?_ What are you talking about!? _”_ the psychologist barked; a tangent of pain hammering her tight chest.

“You and me. We’re in everything together, okay? There’s no fucking secrets. I’m not… I’ve not, I’ve not…” Her voice narrowed to a whisper as she sought so desperately to locate any twinkle of reassurance in those blue eyes. The blonde breathed heavily and hugged her chest. She didn’t know what to do. What to say. Her mouth was completely dry.

“I think I need some alone time today.” Franky couldn’t refrain from scowling a bit. “Come on,” she reasoned. “Don’t be dramatic, you’re overreacting.”

A shade of fury blazed in Bridget’s eyes and they glistened with unshed tears. “Seriously?” she mumbled in disbelief. “Just go, Franky.”

The brunette nearly gasped like she’d been bombshelled and kicked in the throat. Her heart thumped wildly when she dared to mutter her next question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I want to be alone!” Bridget shouted, trembling in anger.

Flabbergasted and tired, a "fine" was declared from Franky in a grunt. She grabbed her jacket and stuffed her car key into her pocket. “I’m gonna be late for work, anyway.” With that, she turned on her heels and slammed the door after her.

The psychologist hopelessly sagged her back against the door and brought her hands to her face to brush away the stray tears, wondering what she would do next. She needed to rearrange herself. Formulate how the fuck she would figure this thing out and what it meant for her.

Barely realising, her legs led her back into the kitchen. Her eyes grazed the numerous bottles of wine in the racks and without thought, she selected the first one her pupils focused on. Shakily, she scrambled around in the drawers to locate that fucking corkscrew and clutched onto it with all her might.

 

The cork shot off with a pop and the liquid was hurriedly poured away down into the sink.

 

She may not have gained a great sense of revel from watching it swirl away down the plughole, but if she was going to sort her head out, a drink was the furthest from what she needed.

It didn’t feel like a significant difference in the moment. But it was a start.

* * *

Time had rolled around to 2:00 PM and, in every sense of the word, Franky was completely unfocused. She was sat at her desk reading through her notes on the case that she had just been handed. An elderly disabled woman in her late sixties was facing tax foreclosure on the home she had inherited from her mother.

The paralegal frowned and rubbed her temple as she scanned through the brief. Both mind and comfort were elsewhere and though she had thrived in similar cases before, needless to say, they weren’t exactly riveting. In short - she’d had better to work on.

But she was restless and downbeat. The argument with Bridget had been rewinding and repeating in her head for the last hour or so, and the orchestra of clicking pens, ringing office phones, fingers hurriedly pattering on keyboards, and mouse clicks was driving her and her misophonia up the wall.

She grabbed her phone, feeling sick of being guilty and haunted by the way this had preposterously blown out of proportion, and opened her messenger. Knowing she should have been more careful was a given, but realising she’d been so reckless and lousy in the process was remarkable for even someone of her inexperience in throwing herself into shit like this.

With sweating hands, her thumbs trembled over the lit-up keypad.

 

 **To:** Bridget

I know u don’t want to hear from me for the rest of the day n i totally understand. But I need you to know there’s an explanation for everything gidge, I promise. Love you, F x

 

Before tapping ‘Send’, she felt someone’s presence stand over her like a school teacher. She looked up. It was Mister Strathairn. He said nothing but gestured to the monitor, implying it would be in her best interests to focus on her work and not allow herself to be distracted. With nothing besides a short nod, Franky rotated back to the computer, backspaced the text and returned to her work.

“Uh…” she called after him, biting her tongue with anxiety. “I do have to leave at –” “At 3:00 PM, yes, I know Franky, so I suggest you spend your last hour cracking on. I’m sure you know what to do,” he kindly warned without turning back from his stride.

Franky swallowed. It had been a few weeks since she had been sent back to the head office after the rigmarole of skiving off to find Shayne, facing new changes and overcoming gunshot recovery, and, with close-eye and plenty of sympathy support, she’d made it back to where she’d left off. She couldn’t afford to screw shit up again. Things had to be done by the book with care and precision and it seemed she failed at that in her relationship this past week. It wouldn’t happen with her job, too. 

An hour soon skimmed by and Franky had to blink twice just to assure herself that the computer clock actually said 3:05 PM. With a muttered “Shit”, she was shoving files and personal belongings under her arms and bouncing on the balls of her feet waiting to debrief where she was at with Wilson. Wilson was covering for Imogen, who had to take leave for knee replacement. He was a short man, particularly arrogant and rather unpleasant to be in the company of. While Franky knew he looked forward to their occasional interactions, she certainly could not say the same, since that required not only listening but looking at him, too.

Regardless of the urgent need to be out of there as quickly as possible, she _always_ strove to keep their encounters very brief. Wilson, on the other hand, always tended to purposefully take his time while examining her notes, letting his hard gaze rove over every tiny and sometimes meaningless comment scribbled on the pages. Only when the bounds of common courtesy had surpassed, he finally acknowledged her presence with a grim look. His expression never tended to shift, so, the vast majority of the time, Franky never knew what to expect and what the first words out of his mouth would be. “Franky,” he said, licking his lips. “Good stuff, good stuff.”

All that wait. For that. She stared at the clock on the wall, now ticking just by bang-on quarter past. “Yeah, yeah, ta.” He handed her the notes back, still looking remarkably stiff and blasé despite the good words. “Keep it up,” Wilson said. 

Without replying, Franky turned and left, trotting down the narrow staircase, and could still feel his beady eyes on her. He was a weird one – she knew that much.

 

Franky made it out to her car through the beating sunshine, tossed the notes to her backseat, thankful that they didn’t scatter out from the file, and adjusted herself in the driver’s seat. She took a long, hard moment to close her eyes and inhaled sharply. She wished to have a spare moment’s thought. Maybe a cigarette to keep the edge off, however; she didn’t have the time. Her key barely twisted in the ignition, when her phone’s ringtone pierced the silence, alarming Franky.

It was Bridget calling.

She swallowed hard bringing a hand to her temple, rubbed her fingers along her brow and stared at the device in uncertainty.

Franky reluctantly answered the call and brought it to her ear, expecting the words she feared the most. _You’ve ruined it again. It’s all over._ She let Bridget speak first.

“Hey, Franky…” a tired voice croaked. There was some sniffling – her throat narrowed achingly in anticipation. She opened her mouth, but Bridget pressed on quietly. “I’m, uh…I’m sorry. About earlier. I think I was being…” Franky could imagine the forlornness in the blonde’s face just as she struggled to continue. “I was being overdramatic. I was just overthinking things, really.” There was a tight pause. “Franky? You there?”

“Yep,” the brunette managed. She heard a soft sigh.

“I think we’ve both just been stuck in our own messes and we need to communicate more.”

Franky bit down harshly on her lip.

“I love you, and I just…I think I just feel like I need a bit of reassurance. Franky?”

The brunette’s demeanour changed as she forced it to shift somewhat more optimistic. She screwed her eyes firmly shut as she breathed out her next words. “Everything is gonna be alright, Gidget. I promise. I love you and I’m gonna explain everything.” Her lips tugged into a smile. “Okay?”

There was a flicker of hesitation – nearly quick enough to miss.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. What is Franky up to? ;) Any thoughts are greatly appreciated!


	3. Update Notice

It’s time I completed this work so I would like to post this notice to say that I have begun the final chapter. I recieved a few questions via tumblr regarding this fic (which I am deeply flattered for) though I should confess the reason it has taken this long to get round to it is mainly because I lost faith in the story and my writing. Cliché though common to fall victim to. If you have been following this fic and are still waiting for the resolution, thank you ever so much for the encouragement. Hopefully it won’t take too long.


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